


The Secret "Oral" History

by jennandblitz, stonecoldhedwig



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1980s, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, An Educational Experience, Drugs, Explicit Sexual Content, Filth, Filthy, It's the 80's, Lots of Time Spent in Bathrooms, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, everyone is fucking, in all senses of the word, there's coke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-31 06:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19420573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennandblitz/pseuds/jennandblitz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldhedwig/pseuds/stonecoldhedwig
Summary: It's 1982 and Hogwarts istheplace to be. For a University, there's more cocaine and blowing your Professor in the bathroom than there is studying or seminars. Sirius Black happens to like it that way. Remus Lupin, however, needs to learn to relax and Sirius thinks he might know how to help with that.





	1. 3pm Lectures

**Author's Note:**

> We were very drunk and inspired by [this article.](https://www.esquire.com/entertainment/a27434009/bennington-college-oral-history-bret-easton-ellis/?fbclid=IwAR22_fswniFVJ77Ch159x5fu7hDLjpBXaUDvV8osNw3CFT7bnP6lsxf31qg) First two chapters written, second two coming in two weeks time.

Sirius thought classes at 3pm should be fucking outlawed. He could still taste last night’s gin and the cocaine is burning his nostrils from a midday rendezvous with James in Caradoc Dearborn’s apartment after spending all night at Fenwick’s cousin’s flat. He was in last night’s clothes, a button-down hanging from his shoulders atop deep red ranunculus bruises from Marlene McKinnon’s teeth when they’d had a post-lunch rendezvous in Caradoc Dearborn’s bathroom, coke-fuelled and gin-soaked. _Rendezvous —_ he fucking loved that word _._

He stifled a yawn into the crook of his elbow and fumbled in his pocket for a pen. He supposed he should take notice of Slughorn waffling about Classic Philosophy but his brain was swimming with the beginnings of another novella and instead he scribbled the opening lines of a bleak dystopian early 21st century scene onto the back pages of his notebook.

_Fawkes will pick a glass of wine off the table, cherry and chocolate mingling with cinnamon in the garnet-red liquid._ Sirius thought about that sentence for a while, mulling it over and chewing the syllables silently in his mouth. Writing in the future tense was his _thing_ , like no capitals were e.e.cummings’ thing, or writing twelve pages about a room was Charles Dickens’ thing.He decided it was his thing at the end of first year, when he’d gone to Sinistra’s cabin, and had hours of violently-excellent sex, only to be told by the professor that his work wasn’t _forward thinking enough._

So here he was, in some stupid Classical Philosophy lecture, with Slughorn prattling on about Plato’s cave and the contrast with Aristotle and, frankly, _Sirius didn’t care_. He growled instinctively, glancing down at the paper he’d been writing upon, and crumpled it in his palm, the crisp paper digging into the soft flesh of his palm.

“You know,” came a gentle voice in his left ear, making the hairs on the back of Sirius’ neck stand up, “I’m sure you’d enjoy this more if you concentrated on the lecture.”

Sirius glanced over his shoulder, glaring daggers at the owner of such a voice. A mop of auburn curls, frizzy and wild, green eyes, a smattering of scarring across one cheek. Remus Lupin, teaching assistant , the sort of prick that Sirius always encountered at the more straight-laced of faculty parties. Sirius thought Remus might be more attractive if he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, had a good fuck and did a handful of _good_ coke, because half the time, he looked like he had a stick up his backside — and _not the good kind_. Sirius rolled his eyes. “I’d enjoy the lecture more if Slughorn said something interesting once in a while.”

A balled up note hit his desk, interrupting his staring match with this green-eyed prick who seemed to think _paying attention_ at lectures had any baring on Sirius’ ability to write the next masterpiece and pass his fucking classes. Sirius raised an eyebrow at the man, daring him to reply, before he unfurled the note from his desk.

_Sluggy’s party tonight. McKinnon and Meadowes are hosting a party after._

Sirius glanced over his shoulder to see James Potter, arsehole-extraordinaire, wild hair and wilder fashion sense, grinning around a cigarette. Sirius flipped him off and turned back to face forward, sliding a sly glance along to the auburn-haired lecture-loving prick next to him.

Sirius pulled a piece of notepaper from his folio, quickly reaching for his fountain pen—the _Montblanc_ that he’d spent half of last month’s rent on. He put pen to paper, revelling in the feel of smooth, black ink against the paper. He loved writing like this, loved watching the nib split and come together again, birthing forth words upon the ivory page.

_What are you doing tonight? I know something much more interesting._

Sirius slid the notepaper along the desk—folded, not crumpled—and pushed it under Remus’ hand. He watched Remus’ auburn eyebrows rise as he scanned the paper—once, and then twice, again. Then, he reached for his pen—some cheap, plastic ballpoint that Sirius would have scoffed at if he wasn’t so enamoured by the way Remus’ long, elegant fingers wrapped around its shaft. There was something a little crooked about Remus’ little finger; it didn’t sit parallel to the others in quite the same way, as the middle knuckle bulged slightly and curved the finger to one side. Sirius allowed his tongue to swipe across his lips, drumming his fingers on the table, watching Remus write.

Remus slid the paper back along the desk, looking pointedly back towards the front of the room where Slughorn was pacing a worn line into the hardwood and gesticulating about Aristotle.

_Seems like you have a high standard for interesting things, if this lecture’s anything to go by. You’re staying for the gathering after this?_

Sirius waited, not giving Slughorn or any of the other attendees—Evans was at the front answering questions with disgusting alacrity—any of his attention, until Remus glanced back at him. Maybe it was the coke wearing off but Remus was getting more and more arresting to look at the longer they shared these sideways glances.

Remus raised a querying eyebrow. Sirius shrugged as if to say _might do, if it holds my interest_. Remus, seemingly content with the answer, looked back towards the blackboard and drummed his awful cheap ballpoint against his papers. Sirius set his chin on his palm and blinked a few times, willing away the rest of this intellect-sapping lecture.


	2. The Rubber Duck

“Pass it to me.”

Sirius handed the rolled up twenty dollar bill to Slughorn, allowing their fingers to brush. There was a jump of unexpected electricity between them, and Sirius found himself simultaneously repulsed and endeared—especially when thinking about the sharp jump upwards his grades would take after this evening. It wouldn’t be so bad to give Slughorn a quick blowie in the bathroom, would it, if it meant he’d get better grades?

“Oh, last time I was doing coke in the bathroom—” Slughorn interrupted Sirius’ thoughts, pausing to inhale deeply and sharply over the last neat little line of white powder, swiftly vanishing into the aperture of the rolled up note— “it was with a beautiful young woman.” Slughorn straightened and dabbed at his, _ugh_ , slightly hairy, nostrils.

Sirius raised his eyebrows, unsure how to respond when the coke had hit him, and he could practically _smell_ the turtles dancing in luminescent-green on Slughorn’s tie. He rested his head back against the cool of the bathroom tiles, fixing his eyes on the rubber duck in the corner of Slughorn’s bathtub. Sirius wanted to laugh— _what was the purpose of a rubber duck?_

“Emmeline Vance,” Slughorn continued, perching neatly on the side of the bathtub as he closed his eyes and knotted his fingers over the bulging seams of his waistcoat. “And such a pretty, _pretty_ specimen she was.”

Sirius wanted to respond, but the tiles behind him were the only thing rooting him into reality when everything else was swimming before his eyes. It suddenly felt warm in the bathroom—too warm, if he was honest—and Sirius stumbled over to the window in an attempt to reach fresh air, only to find it painted shut when he tried to open it. Sirius rested his head against the glass, feeling the usual surge of fire in his veins. His heart leapt up and hammered in his throat, the pounding blood soaring through his ears and blocking out Slughorn’s wittering about Emmeline Vance and her _lovely_ —

There was a _rap_ on the door. Sirius moved towards it, glad for the interruption to Slughorn’s train of thought. Peter was leaning against the doorway, looking a little pained. He offered a grimace. “Are you done? I could really use the fucking bathroom.”

Sirius gave Peter a long, withering look, glancing from his scuffed shoes, past his ostentatious belt buckle, up to his _too-big_ shirt, and rolled his eyes. Of course, he needed the bathroom. _All that fucking coke._

Slughorn stumbled over to the doorway, calling genially, “Pettigrew!”

Sirius took the opportunity to sidestep that awful conversation, where inevitably, Peter would be drawn into the bathroom and something illicit would occur, with a lot of _body_ involved. He gratefully lost himself in the crowd for a moment, weaving through the other bodies crammed into the flat.

Across the room, Sirius caught the eye of James, frowning slightly as he watched his best friend gesture for him to approach. Before he could move towards James, he paused briefly, taking up a glass of champagne proffered by a white-suited waiter carrying a silver tray. On the other side of the room, Sirius noted Gideon Prewett in deep conversation with Professor McGonagall; he thought for a moment about crossing the room and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, whispering something filthy and rich into his ear, dragging Gideon away from all the pretence and the pageantry. He thought about sliding his hand up the well-cut seams of Gideon’s suit, feeeling for zippers and button until—

But they weren’t doing that right now, were they? So Sirius forged on, ignoring those urges and the sultry look that Gideon shot his way through the crowds. Because Sirius had always had that affect on men, hadn’t he? He’d always been able to turn them to putty, to make them weak and wanting. At least, every man except James Potter, who motioned again for him over the heads of the other guests.

And Sirius wanted to go, he really did. But going to James required him squeezing past Alastor Moody, famed-publisher and _oh shit, that was Remus Lupin next to him._ Auburn hair pushed back from his forehead, so much more elegant than he ever looked in class; shirt buttons undone to expose the top of his clavicle, like he’d read Sirius’ mind in class earlier that day.

And he knew he _shouldn’t_ ; he shouldn’t slip in and insert himself into that conversation. But Moody was a huge deal, and loved to roam the parties at Hogwarts looking for the next big thing. He had given Amelia Bones her first publishing deal for an exquisite book of poetry that would never have seen the light of day, otherwise. A phrase from Moody’s biography floated in Sirius’ mind: _constant vigilance_.

For some reason, that swayed him — quite literally, as he stumbled a little bit through the throngs of people. He emerged next to Remus, who paid him no mind and continued to talk to Moody, a snippet of their exchange reaching Sirius’ ears — _“yes, Hestia Jones’ new work is really sublime_.”

Doubt flamed in his mind for a moment. Of course Remus was _actually_ talking about writing with Moody, not buttering him up with compliments like everyone else at the party was wont to do. Sirius decided he had better places to be than discussing Hestia _bloody_ Jones on a Friday night.

Then he turned, and stumbled. The coke had well and truly taken effect, and the people around him were pulsating like—like… _some big pulsating thing_ , the colours swirling in his eyes, spinning and shifting. His shoulder collided with someone’s arm and he caught himself, turning to see Remus Lupin glowering at him.

“ _Shit,_ sorry chum,” Sirius blurted.

Somehow, the champagne in Sirius’ glass had remained unharmed, but Remus’ glass of red wine had upended itself into an unsightly blotch over his shoulder. Moody glanced at the stain of red wine blooming on Remus’ white shirt and grimaced.

“Fucking hell,” Remus hissed, looking down at his shirt. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Moody, I—”

Only when Remus looked up, Moody had gone. He rounded on Sirius, fury in his green eyes. “What the fuck?”

Sirius shrugged and looked at him apologetically — well, as apologetic as he could muster when the coke was making the light dance just so _exquisitely_ across Remus’ face. Sirius’ skin was humming, the space between the membranes vibrating with effortless energy and potential. Remus emitted a noise — it could have been a snarl, or maybe a snort of disgust — and barged past Sirius, hand still wrapped around his now-empty wine glass.

Across the room, Sirius caught a flicker of confusion on James’ face over the crowd. As Sirius spun around and pushed through the mass of bodies, intending to follow Remus, he heard—and ignored—James’ shout of _Oi, Black!_ He side-stepped Dedalus Diggle and snatched a glimpse of the back of Remus’ auburn curls slipping into the bathroom — the bathroom Sirius had just thought about blowing Slughorn in. _Ugh._ He sighed, followed, and managed to stop the door with the end of his Italian leather loafer just before Remus could close it.

“What do you want?” Remus snapped, turning and walking toward the sink. He snatched up the hand towel from the rail beside it, glancing with repulsion at the questionable stains on it, before dabbing fruitlessly at the blossoming spread of wine on his white shirt. “You just managed to fuck up the first time I’ve been able to catch Alastor _fucking_ Moody at one of these stupid parties.”

“It’s no big deal. Moody’ll be around next weekend too, probably. I’ll introduce you, if you like,” Sirius said, shoving his hands into his pockets and raising a cool eyebrow at Remus, wondering why he was _so_ upset.

“No, thanks,” Remus said with a sneer. “Not all of us have a fucking trust fund and a family name to fall back on, _Black_.”

“Ooh, _catty_.” Sirius leant back against the edge of the bathtub and planted his feet wide on the grimy tiles. “For what it’s worth, I’d wager James Potter is the only one with a trust fund and a reputable family name around here. Certainly not little old me.”

Remus scoffed and rolled his eyes, turning towards the sink. He began to unbutton his shirt, pulling it viciously off his shoulders. And despite knowing he shouldn’t, Sirius couldn’t help himself.

“Oh, _I see_ ,” he smirked. “Gotta say, that’s the angriest come-on I’ve ever had.”

“Fuck off,” Remus spat back, running the shirt under the tap in an attempt to wash the wine out, but it stubbornly remained.

Sirius studied Remus’ back, and the strange patina of scars that crawled across it. The dim light of Slughorn’s grotty bathroom cast the muscles of his back in sharp relief; the cliffs of his shoulder blades giving way to the gentle wave of his spine, down to the dimpled coves at the top of his pelvis. Lazily, Sirius pushed off the edge of the bathtub, hips peeling forward languidly, to close the gap between them. He lifted his hand and dragged the blunt edge of his thumbnail along one raised scar.

Remus stilled, the echo of sloshing water in the sink the only sound for a moment. When Sirius’ thumb reached the base of Remus’ spine, the marbled ivory of his back rippled with an involuntary shudder. He let out soft, almost imperceptible moan and turned his head slightly to look at Sirius; the scars adorning his jaw slotting into place against the ones on his shoulder, like silvery rivulets of sea-spray running down a sheer cliff face.

Leaning forward, Sirius pressed against Remus’ back and left an open-mouthed trail up to the soft angle of jaw-meeting-ear, grazing scar tissue beneath his raw bottom lip. Remus turned back to face the sink, his auburn eyelashes fluttering for a moment as the movement caused Sirius’ teeth to grace over where his lips had been seconds earlier.

Sirius looked up and grey met green in the smudged glass of the bathroom mirror. Remus held his gaze as Sirius raised a hand to cup Remus’ jaw, pressing his fingers into the taut flesh of his throat where his pulse was jumping beneath the skin.

“You know,” Sirius said mildly into Remus’ left ear, still holding eye contact with the other man. Sirius could practically _see_ the hairs on the back of Remus’ neck rise at the puff of hot air over his skin. “You’d be far less uptight if you let me fuck you.”

A small smirk played over Remus’ lips as he reached up to wrap his fingers around Sirius’ wrist. They were cool and damp against Sirius’ hot skin; a blush-pink droplet ran over blue-veined alabaster and nestled into the crook of Sirius’ elbow. The wine from Remus’ shirt had mixed with the water in the sink, some perverse sacrament, sacred and sinful.

“Who says you’ll be the one doing the fucking?”

Then—

Sirius grabbed Remus’ surprisingly corded bicep, spinning him around and snapping their hips together, pressing him back against the sink. Teeth and tongues clashed. The cocaine-fuelled creature in Sirius surged beneath his skin, that fire-breathing dragon clawing its way up his throat and out into their fierce kiss. Remus sank his nails into the back of Sirius’ neck, claws pressing into sweat-sheened skin. They kissed like it was a sparring match, pit against each other to emerge victorious in this challenge of grasping hands, keening hips and open mouths, Remus’ cool body against Sirius’ searing skin.

Sirius retaliated by breaking away and pressing his mouth down Remus’ neck towards the vines of silver scars atop his shoulders. He sank his teeth into pathways, leaving wine-red blooms against the delicate skin. Remus hissed. He reached a hand between them and palmed Sirius, smirking into Sirius’ temple as Sirius groaned into his neck and shoved his hips forward.

“Eager, are we?” Remus teased, his hand still sliding slowly over the bulge in Sirius’ trousers.

Sirius lifted his head from Remus’ neck, opening his mouth to utter some witty retort, when—

The door burst open and the two of them sprung apart, trying to pretend their tongues weren’t down each other’s throats a matter of seconds ago. Sirius combed his fingers through his hair, feigning nonchalance; Remus leant back against the sink, pushing his hand into his pocket to hide his burgeoning erection.

James Potter was silhouetted in the doorway—the bright light behind him illuminating his outline like some shitty knock-off, coked-up Hermes. Sirius rolled his eyes. _Typical James, interrupting what had promised to be a fucking good shag_.

James glanced over at Remus’ naked torso, lifting an eyebrow ever-so-slightly and leaning against the doorframe. Unrepentant and grinning, he pulled a cigar from behind his ear and spun it between his fingers as he cast an appraising— _judgemental_ —look over Remus.

Sirius cleared his throat as Remus stared defiantly back at the heir to the Potter fortune.

Smirking, James looked back at Sirius, meeting his best friend’s eye through the half-light. “Afterparty,” he drawled, “at McKinnon’s. Coming?”

Sirius looked to Remus, raising an eyebrow— _coming?_ Remus shrugged lazily, as though to say _if you are_. He pushed himself forward, leaving behind in the sink his ruined shirt like an offering on the altar to whatever had just happened in Slughorn’s vile bathroom.

James chuckled, straightening up to fill the doorway and stop Remus passing. “We’re not going anywhere particularly auspicious, but I reckon you’ll need a shirt.” He glanced to Sirius. “Black might prefer you stay like this, though.”

Remus gave James a slow look up and down before stepping past out into the hallway. Their shoulders collided and Sirius bit back the urge to laugh at the adolescent posturing for dominance. _James hadn’t changed, not since boarding school, not since he perfected the gesture whenever he passed Snape in the cloisters._

“Having fun, were we?” James asked Sirius. “I’m _so_ sorry to interrupt what I’m sure was a _fascinating_ conversation about rubber ducks.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, and flipped James off.

“C’mon—” James jerked his head towards the door— “places to be.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Crash!_

James swept his arm across the low coffee table in the middle of Marlene’s sitting room. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts cascaded to the floor, casting its contents onto the carpet. An old, foggy glass of water tumbled alongside it, mingling with the scattered cigarettes. From behind him, Sirius heard Remus’ sharp inhalation of surprise at James’ cavalier attitude to the carnage he had just wrought.

No one else paid the fallen clutter any mind though. The other bodies in the room seemed unfazed by it, stepping over the mess — or in some cases, treading a mixture of ash and water into the fibres of the carpet and the grain of old newspapers — as Benjy fell to his knees and began to stack up neat, little white lines of powder upon the now-cleared table with a flick-knife he pulled from his pocket. Marlene was in the corner, pouring drinks. She had uncorked a bottle of red wine—a 1971 Côtes de Beaune—and poured the deep red liquid into chipped, chintz mugs, handing them around as garnet rivulets ran down the china and dripped onto the sullied floor. 

Sirius snatched up a passing cup, turning fluidly in one motion to kneel beside Benjy, in preparation for their shared communion. Glancing up, he caught Remus’ eye, and grinned ferally. The hit from Slughorn’s bathroom seemed hours ago, days even, and his surroundings were threatening to become disappointingly mundane. He paused for a moment, thinking it over — perhaps Fawkes would have something to say in a moment like this, he mused. _Fawkes will think if only, if only the light wouldn’t turn from glittering gold to a melancholy amber as the heady high wore off._

Sirius pulled himself back to the present moment, away from what Fawkes _would_ do. He stretched out a long, elegant hand, gold signet ring catching the light as he extended his little finger and traced it through the pure white powder Benjy had prepared for him. Eyes resolutely on Remus, he lifted it to his mouth, and slowly sucked the smattering of substance from the tip of his finger, relaxing into the reassuring numbness it caused on his tongue. As he did so, Remus’ eyes widened ever-so-slightly, feasting on the sight of Sirius’ slow, sensual suck. Sirius let him look for a long moment, savouring the low pulse of the drug. Then the air rushed back into the room, the spell broken, and Sirius snatched the proffered rolled-up note from Benjy with a fiery wink in his direction. One short, sharp inhale and Sirius straightened, dabbing at his nose with the back of his hand and passing the note onto James, who had knelt next to him at the altar rail to their debauchery.

There came a flare of noise from the doorway and Sirius looked up to see Gideon and Fabian Prewett, a duo of well-cut suits and artful, expensive waves of ginger hair. Sirius let his eyes drift to Remus, deep in conversation with Caradoc Dearborn, his gaze flickering to Sirius more often than not. Then, smiling, Sirius looked back to Gideon, the other man spotting him quickly and sharing with him a sensual flicker. Gideon sauntered across the room, relishing Sirius’—and everyone else’s—eyes upon him. He, too, knelt at their altar, extending his hand and plucking the rolled note from James’ fingers. As Gideon leant forward to inhale one of Benjy’s consecrated lines, Sirius idly let his fingers trail through Gideon’s auburn waves. Looking up through his dark eyelashes, Sirius once again studied Remus’ face, a delicious buzz beginning to spread through his sinuses and into his brainstem. A flicker of something— _was it jealousy?_ —danced over Remus’ features and he turned away. Before Sirius lost him in the crowd, he caught sight of the scars on Remus’ cheek, that unknown world mapped out in silvery-white against his skin. Then, he was gone.

Sirius smirked. He knew that look, he’d seen it often enough; that was the look of a man caught in his orbit, desperately trying to resist his gravitational pull. Sirius didn’t need to chase him. He’d come back soon enough. Sirius shifted closer to Gideon and bared his teeth on the sensitive spot at the corner of the other man’s jaw, remembering the taste of Remus’ skin in just the same place only an hour earlier.

Gideon smiled and turned towards him. “There was me thinking we’d stopped all this,” he murmured, eyes flickering over Sirius’ face.

Sirius shrugged. “Are we starting it again?”

Gideon laughed. “Let’s get a drink, Black.”

An hour later, Sirius had been thoroughly baptised by Benjy, white powder in a thin film across the room, over his gums, at the back of his throat. Remus had yet to emerge, but Sirius pushed those vague feelings of rejection to the back of his mind. There was still time; he’d turn up. Instead, Sirius slung an arm around Gideon’s shoulder and pressed his mouth over the sinew of Gideon’s collarbone.

“Are we starting it again?” he reiterated with a smile as Gideon ushered him into the hallway and towards the privacy of an unoccupied room. Gideon’s hand pressed into the centre of Sirius’ spine, but there was no electricity, no surging waves against clashing rocks; instead, it was a comfortable, well-trodden path towards a fairly-decent fuck.

Gideon grinned lazily in response, separating from Sirius as he reached a hand to push back the curtain hanging in the doorway, a cloud of dust emitting as he did. In the walnut-lined study that lay before them, Sirius expected a moment of still calm; instead he was met by the flickering flame of Fabian Prewett’s hair, his hand down one Remus Lupin’s trousers. It was clear they too were on a comfortable, well-trodden path towards a fairly-decent fuck, and that idea made a monster rise in Sirius’ chest; only this time it was jealousy-driven, not cocaine-fuelled.

_“Shit.”_

Fabian and Remus sprang apart, the bulge in Remus’ groin prominent and wanting. Fabian scraped a hand through his expensive hair and grinned at his brother, the two of them sharing a moment of both validation and understanding. They watched as Sirius and Remus stared at each other, the tension stretching between them, twin monsters swirling around in the air above their heads, green-eyed.

“Well,” Gideon said, shattering the silence.

“And there was me thinking you two weren’t doing that thing anymore.” Fabian’s eyes flicked between Sirius and Gideon, and he smirked.

“Thought _you two_ weren’t doing this thing anymore,” responded Gideon, lifting a hand and gesturing lazily between his brother and Remus.

“Seems like we won’t be, er, _doing_ anything tonight,” Fabian said, raising his eyebrows and jerking his head towards where Sirius and Remus continued to stare at each other.

“No,” chuckled Gideon, “because it seems like these two have got something to shag about.”

Neither Remus nor Sirius responded to the twins’ idle banter but the colour rose in Sirius’ cheeks. He hadn’t expected to see Remus so entwined with the other Prewett twin. His mission to make Remus jealous had taken a backseat to his own envy. Remus’ lips were pink and bitten and his hair was ruffled as if Fabian had been grasping onto handfuls of curls. Sirius wanted to take him and kiss any trace of Fabian from Remus’ lips, wanted to rake his fingernails down Remus’ back again, only this time leaving hot, red welts across the skin that screamed _he’s mine_.

“Seeing as voyeurism isn’t really my thing, I think I’ll get a drink.” Fabian squeezed Remus’ shoulder in an almost companionable gesture. Remus didn’t seem to notice.

“I think I’ll join you,” Gideon replied, waiting for his brother to cross the room before they ducked out of the doorway together, leaving Sirius and Remus alone.

Remus raised his eyebrows defiantly at Sirius, some quirky smile playing at his lips. The expression seemed to say _go on then_ , _do it_. But Sirius was rooted to the spot, cemented in time and place as Remus chuckled, glanced down at his shoes for a moment, and then moved towards the door.

“Maybe not then,” Remus muttered. For some reason, _that_ was the catalyst Sirius needed. Hating himself for doing it, he mirrored James’ earlier movement, catching Remus’ shoulder with his own. This time, Remus stopped, his deltoid pressed against Sirius’, and he glanced down at where their two bodies met. Sirius made no attempt to put distance between them, instead casting his eyes down to the shape of Remus’ still-hard cock. He felt a jump below his own navel, knowing he was straining against the fabric of his trousers too.

Remus looked up, meeting Sirius’ eye once again. In the dark, Remus’ green eyes grew warmer, bordering on yellow. He smiled slowly, baring his almost-perfect teeth, one canine slightly crooked that Sirius hadn’t noticed before.

“Well then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter coming next weekend. thanks for reading guys!


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